What He Needed
by SherlockIsReal
Summary: Molly reflects on the last year and a half of hiding Sherlock from the world.    I do not own anything of Sherlock Holmes.


What He Needed.

_Molly, I think I am going to die._

_What do you need?_

_If I wasn't everything you think I am- what I think I am... would you still want to help me?_

_What do you need?_

When I asked him that question a year and a half ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. When he told me he was going to die, helping him was the only thing that ran through my mind. Imagine my surprise when he asked me to help him stage his own suicide. With his ingenious planning and my connections in the morgue, it was simple. But the hardest part was keeping it a secret from the world. Especially when the others came around to see him, like when Detective Inspector Lestrade came in to identify the body. Sherlock refused the idea of John doing it because he knew John could only be fooled from a distance. He gave me the perfect argument to present to my boss and he agreed that the official police would be best for the job. Of course it was Lestrade who came. When he entered the room, he paused at the door and just stared in disbelief at the slab where Sherlock lay. With my expert makeup skills, I made him into an impressive corpse. He was completely fooled. I saw him wiping at his eyes when he swept out of the room with his head hung low.

Sherlock only gave me bits and pieces of why he needed to disappear. He told me that it was all to do with a case he was on and that people's lives would be in danger if his secret was discovered. He asked if he could stay with me for a while until things calmed down to which I agreed. Once the coast was clear he crept away from the hospital and followed me home. I'd be lying if I said I was a bit uncomfortable when I let him into my modest apartment. But he seemed thrilled with the cramped little space. He went through each room examining them with quick decisive eyes. The fact that there was only one window that overlooked the brick wall of the restaurant next door was a particular fancy of his but he requested the curtain be drawn at all times none the less. He made his home on the couch.

The first few days went by without incident. Actually... they went by without words at all. He just laid on the couch, staring up at the ceiling with his fingers pressed together at his chin. When I tried to break his silence I was regarded with the coldest set of eyes I had ever seen. I didn't try it again. He didn't eat or sleep much and the only thing he requested was that I buy nicotine patches for him. He refused to let me buy clothing for him in fear of prying eyes so he wore my dad's old pajamas and shirts that I had saved since he passed away. He didn't seem to mind. Peaking out of the window curtain was the closest he came to stepping outside for the first four months, and even then he wore sunglasses and a hoodie.

Living with Sherlock Holmes was not the easiest thing to do and I gained a substantial amount of respect for John. How he put up with Sherlock's peculiarities was beyond me. The hardest part was controlling his boredom. I tried bringing him boardgames and puzzles. At first he complained about the puzzles saying that they where devices invented to dull the mind. But boredom won out after a while and after he tore ass through the intermediate puzzles, I bought him a seventy thousand piece masterpiece which he completed in less than a day. I gave up on them after that. Playing boardgames with Sherlock Holmes is just pointless. We had to invent a whole new set of rules for Battleship because the dimensions of the board were unrealistic he claimed. Scrabble lasted approximately twenty minutes because while I was putting words like 'singer' he was putting words like 'proselytism.' Then I thought of the cleverest game I could think of. I wrapped the game up and gave it to him and watched as he opened it. I had been expecting him to praise me in his rude little way but I was destined for disappointment. He stared at the Clue box for a moment and something in his eyes softened for a moment. He didn't talk again for a few days.

A few months ago he worked out a spectacular agreement with his brother whom, unbeknownst to me, knew of Sherlock's trick. Mycroft brought him cases, Sherlock investigated them from my home, and he sent the answers back to Mycroft. I smuggled a chemistry set and some equipment from the hospital and he was as happy as a rat at a carnival. This served as a much better distraction then the games but he started getting greedy. Mycroft wasn't producing enough cases to keep up with Sherlock's demands. He began following Lestrade's movements through the newspapers and the internet and a new idea came to him. He pitched the idea of helping in police investigations from the shadows and letting Mycroft take the credit for his work. Mycroft was hesitant at first but Sherlock is masterful when he wants something. He reasoned that if anyone asked why he was suddenly interested in police cases that he could reply "it's what my brother would have wanted."

Helping in the police investigations required legwork however. A package was delivered from Mycroft and inside was a wig, a pair of contacts, a deluxe package of makeup, and an outfit. Sherlock didn't even answer me when I questioned about the contents. He raced into the bathroom and disappeared for half an hour. When I went to knock on the door, he jerked the handle opened and I let out a yelp. He was a far cry from the beautiful dark man I knew. He was disguised as an dirty old man with scraggly white hair and tattered clothes. His crystalline eyes were muddied over with brown contacts and his face was riddled with invented wrinkles. He was shorter too. I eyed him incredulously, unable to find my friend in the old man. He regarded my reaction for a moment and then gave an exclamation of pure joy then raced out of the house. When he returned, he had a bag full of disguise equipment slung over his shoulder. When I asked him about his adventure outside, he informed me that Lestrade's case was all solved and that he now had enough material to come and go from the house as he pleased. And he took advantage of it. Sometimes he didn't come home for days on end and I would wonder if he was captured by the men he was hiding from. It drove me mad. But like a stray cat he always turned up eventually.

When he came home one day, he threw his disguise off in a rage and threw himself onto the couch. I had become quite accustomed to his mood swings but this one seemed different. When I asked him what was wrong he told me that he had run into John at the cemetery. Some people liked to go for a walk to clear their head. Sherlock Holmes liked to visit his grave. So did John apparently. Just as he turned away from the shiny black tombstone, John was coming down the stone pathway. John gave him a curious look and greeted him friendly as he set down some flowers, replacing the dead ones. He hadn't recognized him. Sherlock escaped the potentially disastrous event without any effort at all which infuriated him. While he needed John to remain clueless for his own sake... he _wanted_ him to figure it out. I felt so sorry for Sherlock then. How horrible it must have been for him to be so close to what he wanted so badly yet be forced to walk away. During his stay we tried not to talk about John as a general rule. It was such a sore subject that it usually sent him into one of his moods. But I always seemed to do something that made him reference the man. Like when I brought home the wrong type of jam, he told me John made it appoint to know exactly what he wanted so that he didn't have to hear his mouth. I know he didn't mean any harm by it... but I knew I could never equal up to John in Sherlock's eyes.

It's been a year an a half. A year and a half of the oddest roommate I've ever had. But something tells me things are about to change. He hasn't said anything outright but... over time I've come close to understanding his mind. I don't think anyone will ever understand him completely, but I can read those baby blues like a book. They are the most animate part of the man. I can tell when he's lying or excited because they shine like stars and the left side of his mouth kicks up. I think our time is drawing to a end. I don't know how... but I think he's figured something out. I'd be lying if I said I was sad. I would give anything to see him figure out a way to set things right again and take back his rightful place as the world's only Consulting Detective.

I'd like to think that I met his expectations when I asked him 'what do you need?'


End file.
